


Trigger

by isoboto



Category: Ender Series - Orson Scott Card, Ender's Game (2013), Ender's Game - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Army, Attempted Sexual Assault, Brother Feels, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brother/Brother Incest, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Control Issues, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Has Issues, Exploration, Family Issues, Gen, Gender Identity, Girl Saves Boy, Identity Issues, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Peter, Manipulative Relationship, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Mind Manipulation, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Relationship Issues, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Sibling Incest, Trust Issues, brother issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-17 06:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isoboto/pseuds/isoboto
Summary: "You’re not you when you're with him."





	1. i: here to the victories we lie

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMERS:  
⬩ None of the characters are mine unless specified — all belonged to OSC  
⬩ Events will only be based on _ Ender's Game _. There will be no spoilers for later books in the series  
⬩ Non-Canonical — Characters are very OCs since I'm relying off my three-year-olds memories, Tumblr and Pinterest  
⬩ Purple-prosed  
⬩ A study on: 1) Peter Wiggins; 2) toxic sibling dynamics; 3) Alternative Universe; 4) Other Writers' Writing Style

Massive metal arms swung out and latched onto the shuttle’s sides with great  _ Clangs _ . He could feel it in his bones even before it came, yet the impact still felt like a heart attack as it shook the frame. Violent vibrations travelled up the metal exterior, reverberated through his bone marrows, settled somewhere deep and heavy in the bottom of his guts. Ender gripped the edge of his seat while the ship rocked, still high from the potential energy, valves pumping and hissing like beast’s dying heartbeat. Slowly, the internal shake trembled to a still. The shuttle shuddered one last time, as the last links finally locked it in place, rooted to the docking station. The gas chamber within the hatch ticked, equilibrating the pressure inside to outside. 

Then, finally, a few minutes later, a deafening honk blared.

_ Three. Two. One. _

_ Atmospheric pressure is stabilized. _

_ Passengers. Welcome home. We’ve missed you. You may now proceed to the exit. _

The light at the exit switched green with a loud  _ Ding _ . 

Ender didn’t move.

“Any time, Ender,” Graff prompted.

He could feel Graff and General Pace’s critical eyes prob him from across the closed space. Neither him or Graff or Pace moved, even once the female auto-voice announced that they may now safely proceed out. Long silence stretched between them. Ender kept his head turned to the side, kept staring out the window where engineers and workers were swamping around the landed shuttle, guiding detachable corridors into appropriate hatch exits. Slender figures dashed about, blurred by the steam billowing from the rocket’s engines, their shadows another separate creatures. The afternoon sun bleached everything on the concrete ground a pallid yellow of old memories and polaroids. The muted yells and commands filtering through their sealed containment. Cranes, military vehicles travelling from the peripheral of the Landing Site. Ender watched it all, a sense of disintegrated surreality rendered him in a dream-like state. As if he was stuck in a limbo omniscient stage somewhere between his past and future, drifting further and further away from the present.

“Ender,” Graff called again. “You’re home.”

Ender’s fingers shook uncontrollably as he unbuckled. He rose to his feet and leaned heavily against the metal wall behind him, trying to ground himself back to reality (the gravity pulled him  _ down, down, down _ ).

_ I’m back _ , Ender thought,  _ They’ve missed me _ .

He didn’t—couldn’t—stop shaking.

When they exited the shuttle, there were no nosy news reporter or camera flashes readily stationed as Graff feared. Only men and women in militants’ clothes lined along the closed corridor, saluting him and Graff and Pace. Their gaze fell on the men first, then slide over to Ender, and he could feel himself shrunk at the crowd, shrunk at the disdain and skeptical, shrunk at the hope and expectations that sprung from their eyes. The ghost deadweight of a foreign palm closed around like choking shackles on his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter until black edged his vision. (He didn’t know if he should smile, like Peter would in this situation, if he should assured them he was capable of saving the world and everything was alright? He didn’t know if he should grab the closest one and scream at them there was no hope at all, that they were counting on a murderer, not a war prodigy.)

His head was spinning. His knees unsteady as he staggered down the corridor. The black perforated metal sides extending to ceiling and floor suddenly magnified his ragged breathing, his uneven footsteps, his unswallowed sobs magnified their following rushed company, their worried calls, their perturbation at the sight of their saviour suddenly collapsed on his knees and dry-heaved.

(He  _ wanted _ to run from them, run anywhere else, run back to the shuttle, but the gravity was stronger on Earth compared to Battle School. The militants’ eyes drilling into his skull, his back, his calves, silent murmurs washed over him. Drowning. Suffocating.)

A hand dropped on his nape, around his neck—cold, calloused, thin, slender fingers that would not belong to Graff’s.

Pace’s frame bent over him, voice a harsh whisper in his ears, “Don’t embarrass us.” And then he was pulling Ender up and shoved him forward with a force strong enough to dislocate his shoulder caps—enough for Ender to blackout for a few seconds, before reality crashed back down in flaring sensations.

■

There was a black hearse waiting for them at the end of the tunneling corridor. Their sacred luggage had been loaded at the back.

The thirty-minute ride to the safehouse cottage was silent. 

Pace was at the shotgun seat, Graff and Ender at the back passenger seats. Graff sullenly staring straight ahead, his pepper-coloured moustache twitched every so often as he tapped his index finger on his knees.

His desk had been beeping not a minute after they proceeded out the government-property.

_ Ping. _

_ Ping. _

_ Ping. _

The driver rolled down the windows the moment the black carrier rolled past the security gates, turning on the radio and letting the bleary static filled in the terse gaps.

The prairie flashed by in endless strips of sepia colours. It was a blazing summer afternoon in Florida, the livid noon sunlight seemed to be overflowing everywhere, pooling on the asphalt, flooding the terrain, the heat sinking its teeth into Ender’s skin, Ender’s bones that he could feel aggravation shimmering in his blood, fraying on his nerves. Everything was level, seemed to stretch onward forever, pieces falling in place in a straight path instead of curving upward to the familiar rise and curves of Battle School. Ender hated it, hated the strange disoriented his body was struggling against. He had started sneezing from the dust, head aching like there was a jackhammer drilling at the back of his head. His eyes began to tear up and swollen, further irritated from the stale summer wind and the accusing sunlight. Sweat beaded on his back, his nape, his palms and feet, turning his skin sticky. He wanted to go back indoors, but something in Graff’s stony eyes, something in Pace’s studious stares, something in the driver’s cool glances, made Ender bite his tongue. He opted to look back, instead, where the shuttle’s metal rings and bodice glinted at him like a beacon. He kept his eyes on the faraway gleaming travelling shuttle until it was nothing but a shiny point on the horizon.

_ Ping. _

_ Ping. _

_ Ping. _

“Get it, or shut it off.” Pace snapped.

_ Ping. _

_ Ping. _

Ender wanted to reach over and broke his desk. He didn't. 

■

The desert landscape eventually gave in to sprawling green patches of trees. Occasional underbrushes and tumbleweeds dotted the sands replaced by looming trees with generous canopy and colourful barks. Manicured grass carpeted the spaces in between the trees. Ender didn’t know any of the species’ names, and none of the adults in the car cared enough to point out each types—Ender didn’t particularly care, but he could feel his spine relaxed from its rigid state as the humidity eased into the earlier parched air, cool shades kissed his skin like a blessing.

The hearse crawled up the side of the steep mountain. The moment they reached the peak and the car seemed to be hovering a bit before accelerating down, and Ender’s stomach flipped—a familiar feeling of freefalling through one thousand feet in the air, anchoring down by nothing but the enemy’s gate. It was brief, almost like a stolen breath, before the euphoria snapped and emptied out.

Something in his chest twisted. An ugly snarl.

■

The car pulled to a stop in front of a wooden gate. The hearse purred softly before the engine stopped running, giving a small jolt.

“We can walk from here,” Pace said.

“Yessir.”

The chaperone scuttled to open the door for Graff. The old man stepped out and stretched, rolling his shoulder caps, his bones audibly cracked and popped. The driver was about to scoot over to the shotgun side, however, both Pace and Ender had already got out of the car by themselves.

“Well, here we are,” Graff said. “Alright, Ender?”

Ender paused for a moment, his hands braced against the side door as he craned his neck, blinking at the meagre sunlight filtered through thick, palm-sized leaves. Birds chirping, small, delicate shapes flitting between the branches. Warmth caressed his cheeks, gentle now, even though his skin was still dry and scruff from dehydration. The sound of the leaves painted over a quieter, more subtle surrusus. 

Water, he thought. Ocean. Lake.

“Thank you for the ride.” Graff said. 

“It’s my honor, Sir,” The driver croaked, ducking his head and gave a little bow. Even though Graff wasn’t in his usual uniform, and was probably a head shorter than the driver, the younger man seemed to cower a bit as Graff evaluated their surrounding, a reflexive nervous chuckle unconsciously pried out of the young man’s mouth, before he promptly clicked his jaws shut, eyes snapped down when Graff turned and clasped a hand over his shoulder as Graff passed by him.

Pace scoffed and slammed his car door side.

“C’mon,” Graff said, nodding at Ender.

Ender didn’t move immediately. His gaze lingered over his shoulder, watching the young driver loped to the back of the trunk and busied himself unloading the trunk. He wondered was that how other boys viewed Graff when they first entered Battle School. Pure, unadulterated admiration? Compel to please and praise and being recognized? He wondered if that would be him, too, had Graff not handpicked him.

“Ender,” Graff said again, and Ender shook his head.

He followed Graff and Pace's down the driveway. Pace reached and pushed the gate opened, gesturing for him and Graff to hurry along. The hot, smooth, gray asphalt bled into dirt road after a few feet, the stones made small clicking noises as they shifted, pebbles and tiny, angular rocks that dug into the soles of Ender’s boots. Trees lined either sides, shielding the scathing sun.

The cottage emerged into full view. Modest, simple, squatting behind a wall of bushes as tall as Ender. Roof Purple and orange flowers from rectangular stone-made pots fluttered on the front porch, their petals seemed to smile in greetings as Ender came closer. Little casement windows peered down at them. The front door was old-schooled, the same kind that existed in the old photographs his parents’ kept in their album, the kind with door that could be opened with a key instead of a security keypad that required ID card or passcode. He glanced over Pace’s shoulder, and caught just a glimpse as Pace produced a small plain key, and one fluid twisting motion of his wrist, they were in.

  
The first thing he noticed inside was the smell of wood. Old, acrid damp and soft, filling up the open, empty space. Wasn’t like outside. This was thick. Heavy. Tangible in his lungs. It felt— _ weird _ — _ strange _ compared to the recycled air he had been breathing pretty much his whole life. Ender swallowed down the disgust pushing up the back of his throat as he crossed the front hall that expanded into the dining area and kitchen, and wrenched open the patio doors. The wind rushed in, though couldn’t quite wash the slimy and bitter taste from his mouth.


	2. :: MESSAGE

**VIII.** PROHIBITED INTERNET ACCESS: PASSWORD REQUIRED

**Author's Note:**

> follow me:  
  
[Instagram: @faces.of.liars ](https://www.instagram.com/faces.of.liars/)  
[Wattpad: @EPrescott ](https://www.wattpad.com/user/EPrescott)  
[Tapas: @EPrescott ](https://tapas.io/EPrescott)
> 
> TRACKLIST:  
⬩ [float, EDEN ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxTGdVO7k28)  
⬩ [Drowning, EDEN ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKaNodcBiLA)  
⬩ [start//end, EDEN ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHMdv2D7ndc&list=RDzI1FWBQN2wY&index=13)  
⬩ [forever//over, EDEN ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2FFdYZ1ZsbA&list=RDzI1FWBQN2wY&index=16)


End file.
